


Twice (At Once) In A Lifetime

by Kernezelda, luninosity



Category: British Actor RPF, X-Men: First Class (2011) RPF
Genre: Double Penetration, Explicit Sexual Content, Exploration, Falling In Love, First Time, Multi, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, Threesome - M/M/M, basically all the sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-21
Updated: 2013-10-21
Packaged: 2017-12-29 20:47:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1009929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kernezelda/pseuds/Kernezelda, https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/pseuds/luninosity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A not-so-chance meeting on a late afternoon leads to interpersonal...revelations.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twice (At Once) In A Lifetime

**Author's Note:**

> Title courtesy of Bryan Adams, because Michael Fassbender mentioned in one of those recent interviews that he's been listening to that lately!

_Oh - once in your life you find someone_  
 _Who will turn your world around_  
 _Bring you up when you're feelin' down_

_Yeah - nothin' could change what you mean to me_  
 _Oh there's lots that I could say_  
 _But just hold me now_  
 _Cause our love will light the way_  
 _ **Heaven**_ \- Bryan Adams

 

 

*

*

Picturesque though it is, the grille-doored elevator is slower than glaciers. Michael waits for ten whole seconds, then flings himself up the spiral staircase instead; James’ interview should be over by now, and he’d promised him a spin on the new bike. When Michael bounds into the third floor corridor, he hears the elevator ding, the rattle of its doors clanging together. Long legs carry him swiftly around a corner and over hardwood floors, heels clacking. He sticks his head in the first open door and finds himself caught by two blue eyes, bright and cheerful and very glad to see him. And then those eyes flicker away.

Michael turns to look. His brow furrows, and his fingers tighten on the two helmets hanging from his hand. He recognizes the other man standing opposite him in a second doorway, of course – ginger hair dyed dark, but ice-blue eyes unmistakable – and meeting his own with the same puzzlement.

“Ah.” James clears his throat, in what almost seems like a purr. “Why don’t you both come inside.”

Michael turns back. James is leaning against the arm of a thickly upholstered sofa, and wearing an expression of bemused fondness as he looks at them both. In the late afternoon sunlight filtering in through a nearby window, his skin looks pale and perfect, collarbones and throat set off beautifully by the black v-neck of his shirt. Freckles mass in cinnamon delight on bare forearms. Michael swallows, the helmets making hollow clinks against each other when his grip loosens for half a second.

“I had a thought,” James says. His mouth quirks as Cumberbatch and Michael step into the room, closer to him and perforce to each other, “and so I wondered if the two of you would care to indulge me.”

Benedict casts a curious eye at Michael, who sets the helmets down on a side table. “I thought we had a lunch date.” His voice is deep, nearly sonorous, and pure BBC RP.

Michael doesn’t hide his surprise. “I thought we’d made plans to go riding,” he counters, a little hurt that James would have forgotten.

“I haven’t forgotten.”

James is not Professor X, Michael reminds himself. The helmets would have been a clue, if nothing else.

“But I have a proposition for the two of you.”

“Yes?” “What is it?”

James looks away briefly, as if gathering his thoughts. He shifts to the center of the sofa, leaving room on either side for someone to join him, it appears. But then something in him changes. Without moving a muscle, the regular fellow who’ll ride a golf cart into disaster, giggling, vanishes.

In his place…

Michael breathes deeply as he takes in James’ half-lidded gaze, the commanding spread of his arms across the back of the sofa, the muscles now limned and defined by the pale radiance of a dying afternoon. James sprawls his legs, taking up more floor space than his compact form would seem to indicate – the sofa itself is large enough to envelop four or even five of him, but James’ clear-eyed presence fills the space, makes it a mere backdrop. The fading light washes half of his face white as marble, while the other half rests in shadow. James looks mysterious, inscrutable for a moment, unlike the brash chap he plays for the world.

He brings his arms down in an elegant curve of bone and flesh, and twines his fingers together, turning his hands inward and outward, muscles rippling with the motion. He keeps his gaze on Michael and Benedict, who can’t keep their eyes off of him, then spreads his legs just a bit wider. Sturdy fingers settle over denim-clad knees and then drag up and inward, slow caresses that freeze Michael in place. His ribcage seems to jolt with the beat of his heart. A tiny sound nearby indicates that Benedict sees what he does… feels the difference in the air of the room.

A curl at the corner of James’ mouth deepens. He leans his head back to bare his throat, raises one hand to dip behind the front of his belted jeans, and lets the other trace a slow course between his thighs, where the denim begins to noticeably expand.

“I think,” he murmurs, keen-eyed and rough-voiced, “given that you and Benedict have a certain common interest, and that I feel equally interested in both of you, that we might spend some time determining how best to take advantage of all three of us being here in the same city for the first time.”

Michael’s jaw sags. He stares at James, turns his head minutely to gawp at Benedict, whose shock mirrors his own. Heat rises in his cheeks, and stains Benedict’s snowy skin. James blithely sucks in his lower lip and rakes it slowly through small, neat teeth.

Benedict’s mouth opens. Closes. Opens again, soundless. Michael feels a muted hurt, that James doesn’t just… want him. But James has always taken risks, and the risk here is losing two of his closest friends – if he’s wrong.

But Michael _is_ James’ friend; and he’d like to be more. Looking at James closely, Michael thinks, perhaps, he sees a touch of nervousness behind the confidence, the bravado. James is counting on the strength of their mutual desire – Benedict and James, James and Michael – to get past the awkwardness. And it’s not as though Cumberbatch is an offensive creature; surely anyone James would choose to share himself with would be worthy of him.

While Michael stands gaping at James, and Benedict likewise, James rises to his feet and claps his hands together. His burring Scottish accent commands their attention: “Lads, you can stay or go as you choose, but I’m for the hotel-away-from-home where my lovely king-size bed awaits.” He steps between them, eyes twinkling, self-assurance projecting from every pore, and pats both their arses on his way out.

Michael and Benedict are left to stare at one another – but what is there to say at this point? Michael moves first, he’s sure of it, making a mad grab for the helmets - but Benedict rushes forward so that they fall into step behind James, side-eyeing each other and conversing via eyebrows and minute shrugs: are we really doing this? I guess we are; it’s _him_ , of course we are…

Benedict looks as eager and curious and excited as Michael, and again like Michael, just a bit nervous. They quicken their strides in tandem to follow James toward the ancient elevator. He leans back against the wall and says, “Knew you would, now both of you come here.” His confidence and the curve of his beckoning hands are irresistible; so they do.

*

James looks up at them both with a certain solemn set to his brow, eyelashes sweeping down and back up again as they draw close. Benedict glances up, mindful of a possible camera; but the building is old and there is no sign of surveillance equipment. He supposes James is already aware; his friend is a risk-taker, but takes some care for his reputation, and those of his friends.

The serious expression on James’ face drops away in an instant - and then he’s on his toes, a hand on each of their far shoulders drawing them down to meet his grin and quick kiss - nearly a lick, Fassbender first and then Benedict. They stay bent for half a second; Benedict tastes coffee and a hint of pineapple. Quick as anything, James’ hands slip down and down to stroke lean flanks, trail across hips and brush ever so teasingly - a hint of pressure and squeeze - across trouser fronts. Benedict freezes and barely stops himself from gasping; hears Michael suck in a breath and smirks inwardly.

He meets those widened eyes and slides his own to the side; in unison, they reach down to grab hold of a delectable and mischievous Scottish imp… who steps between them just as the elevator bell rings their arrival to the first floor. James doesn’t look back, strides across marbled tiles in a rush for the lobby door. Benedict nearly beats Michael out of the elevator, but two sets of long legs tangle instead, and Michael wins free first.

At the big glass doors, James has turned his head, and laughs out loud at the sight. Benedict takes it as a challenge. This time, he tangles Michael’s steps on purpose, and grabs shotgun when James unlocks the doors of his sleek little car.

Of course, Michael has to lock his bike before they can leave, which should theoretically give Benedict a chance for a quick snog – but James holds a hand up between them and purses his lips tight in amusement and shakes his finger: _no, no, no_. Benedict sulks just a bit. And when Michael bangs his head on the low roof squeezing into the back seat, it isn’t amusing at all. Not even a little. At least, not when James leans over from the front and fusses, gentle-handed examination and concern in luminous blue eyes.

Benedict’s been in James’ car before; he digs the rumpled first aid kit from the glove compartment and hands it over, resigned.

*

They make it to the hotel in record time; they make it to the hotel with a small bandage and the warmth of James’ fingers lingering at Michael’s hairline, and also on Benedict’s wrist, where James had touched him after: appreciation for the quick thinking, for the effort, for the consideration. They make it to the hotel and into another unmonitored elevator, and James kisses them both, hands curving around their waists; they’re both taller than he is, and slimmer, lean and elegant, but Michael stands and moves and uses his height more aggressively, impatient and possessive in a way that James rather likes but might need to keep in check later. Benedict, by contrast, leans into his touch as if amazed that he’s allowed to be here at all, curling his height into James with a rush of sweetness. He tastes like coffee and a hint of cherry chapstick; Michael tastes like sin and leather and caffeine. The combination’s electric.

Unsurprisingly, they kiss differently; surprisingly, it’s not the way he might’ve expected. Benedict, once he realizes that he actually gets to have the subject of his fantasies, dives in eagerly, unrestrained, and the enthusiasm makes James’ cock twitch with delighted response. Michael, for all the dangerous-panther attitude, kisses almost reverently, one hand cupping James’ cheek, as if trying to make him feel safe and beloved.

James nearly laughs at that, but in fact it’s rather nice too: he’s rarely the one being treated like a cherished treasure in bed, and he wonders how that gently demanding mouth might feel other places, and whether Michael would move inside him with that same dreamy intensity.

When they kiss him at the same time, their tongues meet and tangle, all three of them in a knot of pleasurable desire. James wonders, all at once, what it’d be like to see them kiss each other. He might like to watch that happen, when they get to his room.

The hotel is discreet, but James keeps his hands to himself in the corridor, nodding to the maid even though she has earbuds in and barely seems to notice them pass. He can actually feel Michael breathing, the taller midriff pressing lightly against his side when James slides the keycard into the slot. He’s turning the knob when Benedict bends down and licks the back of his ear, and then Michael’s unsubtly putting his hand in the small of James’ back, encouraging forward motion while insinuating himself ahead of Benedict. James takes two steps and shrugs off his jacket - he'd put back on all the layers, armor against the crisply biting chilly air, when they'd left - but Benedict sidesteps Michael and reaches long, slim arms to catch the ends of the bright blue scarf round James’ neck.

“I like to unwrap my presents slowly,” he murmurs, arctic eyes grown hot and eager over a slanted half-smile.

James grins up at him, and tosses the jacket aside without looking. Michael steps around them both and rests his hands on James’ shoulders. He rubs lightly, then slides his palms forward and down, fingers spreading wide until he reaches the highest button of the crisp silk shirt, blue as James’ eyes. “I’ve always felt the same,” he rumbles, and James feels it in his thorax, where his back is held firmly to Michael’s chest.

He leans his head back on Michael’s shoulder, widens his stance while tilting one hip forward, then the other, so that his feet wind up just outside of Benedict’s, who’s looking down at him with all the intensity he brings to his work - all of that blue-hot flame focused exclusively on James. “Well,” James sighs, happy and excited and aroused beyond measure, “I suppose you’d better start unwrapping, then.”

It’s Michael finding the buttons of his shirt, Michael kissing his neck from behind, somehow divining the exact right spot to make James catch his breath. But it’s Benedict’s nimble hands undoing his belt and jeans, with excruciating slowness: the buckle and the loop, leather sliding loose with a low hiss over denim before thumping to the floor; the button at his waist, the zip, millimeter by incremental millimeter. James shuts his eyes, and gives himself over to those hands, to the heated breath on his skin, to the cooler sensation of the air when Benedict stops teasing and tugs both jeans and shorts down in one fluid motion, making him gasp.

Behind James, Michael stops unbuttoning to wrap long arms around his torso - and lifts him right off the ground while Benedict pulls off his shoes and socks and tosses them aside. James is hard-pressed not to kick out with ticklishness, but Benedict grins and removes his jeans and shorts with a flourish, his own following, and then skins out of his jacket and shirt and undershirt in a bundle of multi-colored fabric while Michael sets James gently and carefully back on his feet.

Michael resumes unbuttoning, sliding his fingertips beneath the fabric each time, callused fingertips wonderfully stimulating on smooth skin. James starts to pull his arms free of the sleeves, to turn and return the maddening kisses impressing themselves along the corded tendon of his neck, but Michael stops him with his arms halfway free. Benedict comes forward and places firm hands around James' waist, crowds in close until his erection brushes James'. James sucks in a breath, only to have his mouth plundered instantly, Benedict inexorable and hungry - while Michael presses his own hard length against James' arse, rutting firmly into the cleft so that the denim of his jeans rubs and pulls at dampening skin.

James can't get a word in edgewise - and his hands are slowly dragged behind him by his sleeves. He could pull his arms loose, but Michael seems to want otherwise; and James is perfectly willing to see where his two best mates - and he nearly laughs at his own phrasing, double entendre not intended but apt - can take him.

Benedict holds James' gaze, but he's reaching around behind him now, hands working busily. Michael's "Thanks" and the rustle of falling cloth - and the brushing of bare shins against the backs of his calves - tells James all he needs to know. He thrusts his pelvis forward, cock rubbing against Benedict's, and is rewarded with a hungry nip at the corner of his mouth, a re-doubled sucking of his tongue, and a return thrust that drives him backward into Michael's eager shaft, dripping at the tip where it jounces between his buttocks. Both his button-down and that black undershirt they'd seemed to like so much have disappeared now; Michael's hands've been pleasingly occupied, and continue to be, stroking over his sides, his stomach, pulling him in close as if planning to never let go.

"Lube," he tries to say. “Bedroom, lube, now!" Unlike Charles Xavier, James cannot psychically speak to his lovers. But he can and does pull free at last. Naked and spry and bouncing happily in all the right places, he looks from one to the other, licks his lips and drags his eyes up and down with particular attention to a lovely set of near-matched pokers, and backs through his bedroom door. “Coming?"

Then he winks, and turns and dives onto the waiting mattress, fit for a king or three.

They look at each other as well, and this time there’s no question in that gaze, no _are we really doing this?_ They’re definitely doing this. And him, of course; and he approves of the alacrity with which they join him amid the sheets.

Said sheets are crisp white cotton, clean and perfectly unruffled. They invite all the possible decadence and despoilment in the world. James is thoroughly on board with this plan. He runs a hand over Michael’s hip as Michael settles next to him; Benedict pauses to take his hand, to turn it over, to kiss his wrist, the thin skin over veins. He wonders whether Benedict can taste the pounding of his heartbeat, in his pulse.

He’d not entirely thought they’d go for it, given the invitation; he’d hoped, and he’d wanted, but it was their choice. It’s their choice to be here now.

Michael hooks a leg over his and pins him down to the mattress, long fingers drifting to his chest, finding a taut nipple; as if choreographed, Benedict slides downward at the same moment and kisses his stomach, and lower, licking at the small sticky drops left by his cock, so aroused that the head’s nearly flush against his stomach. Michael nips at his ear, and as James gasps, Benedict wraps a hand around the base of his shaft and adjusts the angle and then plunges that talented mouth down over him, taking all of him in one go.

His gasp turns into a moan, and Michael laughs into his ear; Benedict pauses to glance up, lips shining and wet, and says, “You’ve no idea how long I’ve been wanting to do that.”

James laughs, too, and then glances at Michael - who touches his cheek again, and murmurs, in that flowing Celtic voice, “Same here, though I admit I never pictured sharing you.” James opens his mouth; Michael kisses him, and adds, “I don’t mind. If this is how I – we - get to have you…well.” The fingers tease his nipple again, harder this time. “Then we’ll take you.”

“Thought,” James gets out, panting, “this was my invitation, come up here and let me play with that,” because Michael’s cock is gorgeous and indecently long and thick and currently pressing hard into his hip and he wants it in his mouth.

Michael considers this for a moment, then glances at Benedict, and evidently they’ve figured out some sort of mutual silent communication, because they move in unison: Michael’s kneeling beside his head, hand guiding his own cock to James’ hungry mouth; Benedict goes back to licking him, sucking at him, lazy maddening caresses. James whimpers and tries to thrust his hips upward. Benedict’s hand tightens around his base, holding him down, and when he opens his mouth Michael’s cock fills him, huge and inexorable.

It’s an awkward angle, but the awkwardness gets forgotten in the pleasure of it, his mouth being taken and fucked by one lover while the other’s mouth is on his cock, surrounding him with wet heat, sensation deliciously spun out through his entire body. Michael’s gentle with him at first, that odd tenderness again; James turns his head a bit more, finds a better position, and swallows him down, feeling the length all the way back in his throat, sliding hands up to Michael’s lovely well-muscled arse to encourage him. Michael gets the message, and fucks him harder, powerful thrusts that’ll leave his throat sore and jaw aching, and he revels in it.

Benedict’s busy, too, hands pushing his legs apart; James shudders helplessly at the touch, exploratory fingers caressing the heavy weight of his balls, tracing the delicate space behind them, back to the place where he’ll open up for the claiming. Those fingers are dry, though, because they never paused for the lube. James can’t talk with Michael’s cock filling his mouth, and when he makes a muffled sound Michael cups a hand over his cheek and pushes into him sideways, and James can feel him feeling _himself_ that way, rubbing his palm over the head through James' cheek.

Michael tastes like heat and worn denim and something else indefinable, some hint of burnt-sugar sweetness that’s purely him; James lets his eyes slide shut, gives himself over to whatever they’d like to do with him.

“Hey,” Michael says, pulling free. He sounds amused. “Stay awake, I thought you were in charge here, your invitation.” James opens his eyes, in time to feel Benedict’s mouth slide off his cock with an obscene slick pop, and Benedict’s looking at him, too, and then at Michael.

 _“Lube,”_ James says, rather pointedly, because really if Michael’s going to stop and check on him then he’s going to have to prove that he’s just fine and in fact capable of giving them orders. “Drawer. Bedside table.”

“Right,” Benedict says, crisply proper even in a rough-throated rasp, and rolls over and sits up, swinging long legs off the bed; his erection’s stiff and proud and tantalizing, not as long as Michael’s but possibly thicker and enticingly curved. James watches unabashedly; Michael watches him watching. And then leans sideways and down and licks his cock, still wet from Benedict’s ministrations. James gasps.

Michael grins, eyes hot and completely focused on James’ face, with all those teeth dangerously close to sensitive skin. “Wanted to know how you taste.”

“He tastes spectacular,” Benedict notes, reappearing.

Michael nods. “I like the freckles. Especially down here…” A nibble at his inner thigh; James yelps in offended ticklish dignity, and Michael bites down, hard enough to bruise, to leave a mark, and then kisses the spot. “All right?”

“Extremely yes. Cannibal. Shouldn’t you two be doing something with that lube?”

“So you like a bit of hurt, with your pleasure, then…” Michael catches James’ hand, lifts it, curls it around his own cock, making James stroke him off; James contemplates saying _I’d do that willingly_ , but goes along with it instead. Michael’s grip on his wrist is just the right side of too hard, and he likes it.

Benedict lifts eyebrows at them. “James, weren’t you asking me for something?”

“Oh, right, go on…” He rolls them over, himself more or less on top of Michael, and is almost instantly pinned between that lean body and Benedict’s warmth. Michael toys with his nipples, pinching, twisting, and the pleasure peaks into pain and back again. He’s panting out loud when Benedict’s finger glides across his entrance, silky-wet and promising. He pushes back against it; Benedict laughs, that darkly seductive velvet voice that makes him so good at playing villains and temptation, and accepts the challenge, pressing into him, filling him, opening him slowly.

It’s been a while since he’s done this with another person - or two; no one he trusted enough to get close. But he does have his own fingers, and his vibrator, at home; eventually, he thinks, he’ll have to introduce them. But this is already so good, and he sighs as he feels his body relaxing into the stretch, yielding and giving way. He lets his head fall onto Michael’s shoulder; Michael gathers him close and kisses him.

Benedict moves a second finger inside him, a third; pauses to breathe “Lovely” against the small of his back, and James whimpers softly because he can’t see those eyes, and he wants them both, both his men. Benedict stops, lifts his head. “All right?”

“Fine, I just…” He waves a hand. “Wanted to see you. Both.”

Benedict grins. So does Michael. “Feeling possessive?”

“If that means I get to have you both fuck me, then yes.”

Benedict opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. Michael says, rather dryly, “James, you have no idea what you saying that does to us,” and James laughs because everything is perfect, himself and his lovers and the no-longer-innocent giant bed and Benedict’s fingers moving inside him and Michael’s cock pressed up hard against his and making his vision sparkle. The entire world is brilliant.

“Hmm,” Michael says, and flips them all around on the bed in one fluid motion, head between James’ thighs and that glorious shaft at James’ lips again. Benedict reaches up with a spare hand and tilts James’ head slightly his direction, enough to drop a kiss at the corner of his eye, and then actually puts a hand on Michael’s cock, which James wasn’t expecting - Michael’s surprised little motion, somewhere between a flinch and a _yes please more_ , indicates that neither was he. But they’re all very much on board with this turn of events, especially when Benedict’s hand guides Michael’s cock into James’ mouth.

He hears himself moan, dimly. Michael’s sucking at him, skillful and determined and inexorable; Benedict’s erection nudges hard and hot against his back, and Benedict’s fingers move and twist and crook upward, finding the spot, that spot, and rubbing against it, over and over, until he’s lost in a deluge of sparks, dizzy with need, practically sobbing with it. Michael’s mouth on him gets a bit rougher, a scrape of teeth, an increase in pressure, and Michael’s arousal fills his mouth, his throat; his head’s swimming with ecstasy and the lack of air, and Benedict’s hand cups his face and holds him there, sweet and firm, while those fingers stroke inside him one more time and that tinted-glass voice whispers, “Let go for us, James, come, now…”

So he does, body shuddering with it, thunderclaps with no sound, lightwaves that make him weightless, release that seems to go on forever, leaving him shaky and electric and limp with ebbing intensity.

They don’t let up, though, his lovers; Michael swallows him down, and then keeps licking at him, tongue swiping over newly sensitive skin, pulling him into a tangle of bliss and agonizing overstimulation. Benedict’s fingers are relentless, rubbing that swollen and sizzling spot until he sobs, or tries to - Michael’s iron-hard length still stretching his mouth - and writhes between them, every inch of his body alive with sensation.

Michael pulls away, sits up, touches his face. “James?” There’s stickiness on his lips, visible and messy; James shivers at the sight, as it pulls some visceral response out of his body, his soul.

Benedict sits up, as well, and slips the fingers - _four_ fingers, James notes hazily, god - out of his body. He moans, not certain whether he wants more attention or less, time to breathe for a moment through the dreamy aftermath.

Benedict looks at him, appearing rather satisfied. Then he says to Michael, with a wink to him and a mock-appraising side glance at James, paired with a crooked smile, “Perhaps we’ve worn him out.”

James makes a rude gesture in their direction, weakly, sprawled on the bed between them. “Not that easily. Anyway, you two need taking care of.”

Michael grins at him. “So you are still with us.” Teasing, but there’s a hint of relief there too: Michael worries. James is rather touched.

“Come here,” Benedict says to Michael, who lifts an eyebrow but leans forward in response. James shamelessly props himself up on both elbows to watch.

They kiss each other more tentatively than they’ve been kissing him, but it’s still lovely, Michael’s ginger hair and outdoor-tanned skin against Benedict’s dark head and English-pale complexion. When they part, Benedict laughs. “Still spectacular. Getting to taste him. I never imagined - well, I imagined. Never thought I’d get to. Oh - and you’re rather spectacular, too.”

Michael blinks, grins back, taps a finger over Benedict’s lips. “Not bad, yourself. And…yes. All of that.”

“Hey,” James says, not really indignant when he gets to watch the show, “still here, you two.”

“We’re talking about your charms,” Michael says. “Bask in your glory. Let us enjoy this.”

“Enjoy it by touching me. Or do I have to remind you who gets to be in charge?” To make the point, he sits up, and he does have two hands, so he wraps one around each of their straining erections, and they both inhale in unison, which makes him want to grin, but he bites down on the inside of his cheek and adopts a sterner tone. “Never said I was done with either of you. No leaving me out of this.”

“Yes, sir,” Benedict says, half-joking but with an undercurrent in those pale eyes that suggests he quite likes being given orders, at least by James, at least in bed. Michael tilts an eyebrow at him. “Where would you like us, then?”

“Hmm…” His body’s still relaxed, languid and loose, from Benedict’s previous attention, from his orgasm; he pushes Michael flat on the bed, bends down and swipes his tongue over that leaking head, tight-drawn skin. “Been wanting this inside me since the first time I met you. Are we good with that?”

“Should I be insulted,” Benedict inquires in a somewhat strained tone, as Michael says, “Wait, James, _are_ we good with that, I mean - do we need - condoms, sort of, or, you know…?”

“I mean I want you both.” James turns to look at Benedict. “I can take it.” And then, looking back down at Michael, “We can if you want, but I want to feel you inside me when you come. I’m good, I was just in for a full check-up before signing the contract for this film. They need me in tip-top physical shape.” He squeezes both hands, fingers spread wide for more coverage, and grins as the pair of them jolt, eyes half-closing and then _glowing_ at him. “And it’s not like I make a habit of inviting all the passing gorgeous men into my bed.”

He hesitates, and tries to make light of the next words, too, flickers of the past throwing shadows he doesn’t want to see. The words need to be said, though. He has to know. “If either of you do, we might need to talk. I don’t share well, I don’t like being left, and I plan on keeping you.”

Michael’s eyes get a little softer, complicated and comprehending, and a fingertip brushes his cheek. “We’re not leaving you. Never.”

Catching up, Benedict says, “Of course not. Not ever. And, about the other thing, we’re good. I mean, I haven’t - honestly, James, you _know_ exactly how many people I’ve slept with. And when. I think I told you all of them, that night we got disgustingly drunk off cheap vodka in your flat and I woke up naked in your bathtub and you swore we were never buying vodka again.” His hands fly past one another in graceful sweeps, banishing the possibility for all time: _never again_.

“I can see,” Michael observes, “that I might need to educate you children about the proper application of alcohol. Also, I feel like I ought to be jealous. Naked?”

“I’m a year older than you. And three years older than him.” Benedict’s eyebrows rise, imperious. “ _Children_.”

Michael displays teeth. “And I don’t buy cheap vodka.”

“Behave,” James says it lightly, but with a touch of warning, enough that they both look at him. “In case you’ve not noticed, I’m currently naked with _both_ of you.”

“Sorry, James.” Benedict pats his knee.

Michael’s eyes crinkle at the corners, and his voice sounds a little plaintive. “He got to see you unclothed first. Not entirely, you know, fair.”

James sighs. “If it makes you feel any better, I don’t remember much beyond him declaring that I seriously needed to look at him naked and then passing out at my feet.” His hands are full of eager flesh, so he can’t use them to express his exasperation. Instead, he sighs. “So I put him in the bathtub. I forget why. _I_ wasn’t naked. Though I have to admit, I did have some interesting thoughts, after, in the shower.” And to keep them moving forward, and away from not-quite-so-pleasant-remembrances, James leans flexibly down and licks a fast one-two stripe down the taut undersides of his lovers’ cocks.

It works marvelously.

Michael makes a noise that comes close to being a jealous rumble, and lunges for him, picks him up, and sets him down firmly in place atop lean muscular thighs. James would protest being manhandled, but it’s Michael’s hands, and a delicious secret shiver runs up his spine. When he rocks his hips, Michael’s erection slips between the curves of his backside, and so he moves again, more deliberately. Michael licks his lips; James asks, “Yes?” and Benedict’s fingers stroke over him again with more lube, slick and cool along his skin, opening him even wider for the chill of the night air, the heat of skin on skin.

Michael lifts him up and Benedict holds him and Michael lines up and pushes _in_ , swift and thorough, and James cries out at the suddenness, that entire length in one thrust. It feels incredible, pleasure suffusing his whole body from the place where he’s being entered.

Michael’s hands tighten over his hips, leaving bruises where they grip. From behind James, Benedict reaches around, palm pressing lightly, rhythmically against his balls before fondling his half-hard cock; it swells and stirs again with interest. With Benedict’s free arm across James’ torso, supporting some of his weight, his long fingers pinch tight nipples, having evidently been paying attention to Michael’s discoveries earlier. James moans, sounding rougher than usual with his worn throat. He hisses as those fingers twist a bit too hard, but when the motion pauses he says “More!” and they comply, Michael slamming up into him as Benedict continues his thorough teasing.

He can feel himself drifting, almost out-of-body, lost in pleasure; the sharp sparkle-edges of pain melt into waves of euphoria, Michael’s length rubbing over that spot deep inside him, making him whimper with every thrust, the hand on his cock working him ceaselessly, and the desire builds and sweeps through him until it’s all-encompassing. He’s being held up by Benedict’s strength behind him and Michael’s hands at his waist; Benedict murmurs something to Michael, and then eases him forward, so that his lips brush Michael’s, and he kisses them, distantly aware of his cock - hard again and caught between their bodies - more aware of Michael’s tongue taking his mouth, Michael’s lips on his, sticky with the sea-salt taste of his own release.

The kiss is a distraction, and it works; he feels the blunt pressure at his backside as if from far away, at first, and it takes him a moment: Benedict, as requested. He does get to have both of them inside him. He moans as the realization floods his body; Michael squeezes his hips more steadily, as if offering reassurance.

It hurts a bit - he’s stretched wide and incredibly surrendered to them, but it’s still so much to take, weight and girth pushing into him in a space that’s not accustomed to such demanding invasion. He can feel tears on his cheeks; Michael lifts a hand to brush them away, kisses him, says something soft-voiced to Benedict. The pressure eases, pauses, returns; more lube, perhaps, making the way smoother. Benedict doesn’t let up, and Michael holds him securely, and the motion’s inexorable: James sobs and shivers and feels himself open around them like the bloom of a flower, and then the movement stops as Benedict sinks all the way home.

“James,” Benedict whispers, voice ragged. Michael looks up at him with an emotion like awe in those springtime-colored eyes. “Yes,” James whispers back to both of them, the only word he’s got left, “yes, please,” and they start to move again, finding a rhythm, losing it, motion necessarily circumscribed but even the slightest shift magnified tenfold.

Michael’s brow furrows with the effort to maintain a pace, to keep up that steady piston-slam of thrust and withdrawal, sweat rolling down his temples and slicking his skin where he’s plastered full-length to James. He groans into James’ panting kiss, misty-eyed with pleasure and possession. James twists in place between Michael’s pounding and Benedict’s equally fervent claiming of territory, their legs tangled all together while Michael bears the brunt of their weight, his long body pressed down into the mattress. James tries to get an elbow under him, take some of the pressure off, but Michael knocks it –gently – away, and drags his face down for another plunging kiss. Benedict hisses behind them, breathy and yearning – and leans forward to nip at James’ ear.

James would laugh if he had the breath, but he doesn’t, so he turns his head instead, sideways with a flicker of eyes up at Benedict – who takes it as the same cue Michael does, and both clutch him tighter, Michael’s unrelenting grasp on his hips, Benedict taking hold of his shoulders, and they lean in and _share_ his mouth between them, until James groans from the unexpected unison of thrusts as their concentration focuses on this other part of his anatomy. Tongues and teeth and lips, and he doesn’t know whose mouth he’s licking into, cherry chapstick and sin and coffee and leather a potent and delicious mélange that he breathes in with every gasp.

Michael presses his forehead to James’ temple, and Benedict digs his chin into James’ shoulder; he’s caught and held and embraced between two worshiping bodies, and he feels as treasured and cherished as he’s ever fantasized, hoped he’d someday experience with someone – some _ones_ who love him as much as he loves _them_.

He loses the last thread of control at the thought; his body tightens and clenches down hard on the cocks thrusting and counter-thrusting into him, filling him and finding that swollen and over-sensitive gland with every stroke now; and his lovers cry out above and below, his own cry mingling with theirs as they, incredibly, pound _harder_.

James _screams_ into Michael’s shoulder; bites down hard and feels that warm, wet flesh indent, tastes sweat and _Michael_ ; and he comes all over his belly and chest and Michael’s. Michael throws his head back into the pillow and bucks his hips, erratic and desperate – and Benedict puts a hand down between their bodies and grabs James’ cock, squeezing and milking it for all he’s worth, getting the last drops out while he mumbles and bites at the back of James’ neck.

Michael comes with a sharp cry, floods James with hot thick liquid that loosens everything up considerably, even with all the lube Benedict used earlier; but he’s still hard, and doesn’t withdraw; and James sobs into the side of his neck when Benedict loses all his perfect diction and grunts and roars his release, viscous fluid shooting deep and heated into James’ overflowing body.

Benedict collapses on top of James on top of Michael, and for a long moment, no one moves. No one is _capable_ of voluntary movement; the only motion is that of heaving chests striving to breathe, mouths opening and nostrils flaring – come and sweat and musk saturating their skin, the sheets, the very air of the room.

Benedict manages at last to roll off, landing alongside Michael, shoulder to shoulder and hip to hip. When James feebly tries to do the same, four arms grasp him and instead drag him to lie square atop them instead. Exhausted and hazy with pleasure, he lets them arrange him how they like, an antique china doll made of porcelain, and touched as reverently: his legs pulled wide to drape between each of theirs; his chest mostly atop Benedict’s.

Benedict snakes one long arm under Michael’s shoulders, and the other wraps around James, pulling him close, so Benedict can lip at his ear, press his cheek to James’. Michael mirrors the gesture – it’d be awkward otherwise, the way they’ve arranged themselves, their arms crushed together under James. He uses _his_ free hand to caress James’ arse, long fingers spreading wide, trailing lightly along the crest of wet curves, and pressing teasingly at his dripping and well-used entrance.

James wriggles in faint protest – he thinks, might be imagining it, as he’s far, far too tired to contemplate moving.

“That was…” Michael brings his arm up across all their bodies, holding them close. “Incredible.”

“Mmm,” Benedict agrees sleepily, and shoves his face into James’ hair. “Do it again?”

“Yes,” James wakes enough to say, “yes,” and puts his arm over Michael’s waist, hooks his foot around Benedict’s ankle. And then they all pause, as the yes hovers in the air and takes on extra meaning.

“James,” Michael ventures, breaking the silence, “is that…are we…”

“Yes,” James says again. “I think we are. I mean…this is good, right? Us? And…this way none of us ever has to be alone. We’re all working, right, and that’s hard, being in different places all the time, practically impossible with two people really, but this _is_ good. With three of us, we can sort of…coordinate time off and set visits and the…never letting anyone feel alone. Anyway tripods’re more stable than two legs, aren't they, when you’re trying to balance a camera. Not a perfect analogy. Sorry. But. You know what I mean. We’ll make it work.”

“Yes,” Benedict says, drowsily certain, “we will,” and buries his face in James’ hair again. James grins, catches Michael’s gaze, says, “Besides, I did tell you I wasn’t giving either of you up now.” Michael kisses him lightly on the nose, right over the freckles, and says, “Yes.”


End file.
